Slow Spinning Redemption
by Downlikeyourinternetconnection
Summary: Femslash/Friendship- Quinn/Santana,underlying Brittana. Quinn attempts to comfort Santana which leads to fighting which oddly enough leads to NOT fighting and NOT fighting leads to really not fighting.


Title: Slow Spinning Redemption

Rating: NC-17/M

Pairing: Santana Lopez/Quinn Fabray, underlying Brittana

Warnings/Spoilers: All aired episodes of Glee are fair game. This fic includes sex between two females. I do not have a beta so all mistake belong to me.

Disclaimer: I don't own Glee, its characters or any likeness to its characters. I am not writing this for any sort of profit.

Summary: Santana and Quinn have sex and then have a deep heart-to-heart. Based on a prompt at the Livejournal's glee_kink_meme. Title from the Dashboard Confessional song, "Vindicated."

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><p>The reason she's nervous, Quinn tells herself, is because she hasn't been here in over a year. There's muscle memory though, apparently even for things that make her nervous because she instinctively grasps the thinner branch on her ascent of the Lopez oak tree knowing, however unconsciously, that the thick, husky branch is weak; it has been ever since that one time the rope snapped when she and Brittany tried to sneak Santana out of her house despite her being grounded.<p>

Santana's window is closed and the shades drawn tightly; Quinn could easily just turn around,— hopping out of this tree has always been easier than climbing it— go home and convince herself that she tried, that just coming here was akin to trying, but she's up here now and she supposes there's no real harm in knocking.

Shades shift impatiently to the side before Quinn can even rattle her knuckles against the cool glass a second time. She catches a glance of dark slated eyes peeking around the edge of the blinds before the shades thud resolutely back into place and for a moment Quinn think that's it; she's knocked, Santana has seen that it's her, Santana doesn't want to talk to her, well, she tried, the end; but the blinds rattle again as they are being hauled upwards, and then the window is unbolted and Santana is just staring at her, not offering her a hand to help hoist her into the bedroom, but just staring.

"You're window was locked," Quinn says dumbly, rocking forward on her knees until she has enough momentum to grasp at the ledge of Santana's window and climb the rest of the way in. Santana's stare turns into a glare.

"I haven't left my window open in like a year, Quinn," she snarls, crossing her arms over her chest like it's something Quinn should know; like she isn't as much to blame as Quinn is for her long respite from Santana's house and Santana's life. "Do you want something, Quinn?"

_No_, she doesn't want anything, well, she doesn't want anything in particular, except for everything, everything she and Santana and Brittany had before back when she wouldn't have to sit back silently watching as her two best friends disintegrated before her eyes, back when she could have done something—yelled at Santana until she fixed this, until she fought for Brittany the way she's been doing her entire life or convinced Brittany that Artie will only hurt for a little while but Santana could hurt for a lifetime— back when things were simple.

"Do you want something Quinn?" Santana repeats, irritation seeping into her vocal cords; Quinn knows it won't be long until it's seeping into her actions as well.

"I just," Quinn can't force her thoughts into words. There are so many things she could say; so many things that she should say or should have said _before_ back when they were friends, when they were Quinn, _Brittany_and_Santana_, not these broken pieces of a no longer working entity._ "_Ermmm," words fly though her mind, whiz through her synapses before she can catch them; some sound like apologies, others sound like sympathy; what leaves her lips is: "You didn't seem yourself at school today,"

Santana tenses. It's not a drastic change but Quinn's been wary of Santana finally snapping and hitting her even back when they were friends, so Quinn picks up on the change immediately and tenses a little bit herself.

"I didn't seem myself?" Santana asks, crossing her arms so tight around herself that it looks like she might actually break herself in two. "What the fuck do you know about me to know how "myself" I seemed, Quinn?" she asks furiously.

Quinn wants to be angry at Santana for that, for refusing to acknowledge that despite what they are now, they were friends once, close friends; close enough that Quinn isn't angry at Santana for doing this because she _does_ know Santana; she knows that it's just like Santana to skate right through the denial stage of grief and fixate on the anger like she's doing now.

"Look, San, I know what happened with Brittany…" Santana steels, Quinn's not sure if she's about to start yelling or crying; she's not sure she's prepared for either; she's not sure why she even thought coming here was a good idea, still, she forges on. "I know that you're—,"

Santana shakes her head, clenching her fist aggressively.

"You don't know anything Quinn, so just, don't, ok," Her voice rises in anger but her tone falls with suppressed emotion. "Just don't!"

But Quinn will, because she's here now, and there are things to be said whether Santana wants to hear them or not.

"Santana, I know what it's like to feel like you have no one," She begins, reaching for a hand but Santana jerks away from the contact so quickly that Quinn has to wonder if it really did burn; if the years of competing for top of the pyramid, and then for captaincy, and then for boyfriends have accumulated so much that Santana really, honestly can't stand to have Quinn touch her.

"For Christ's sake, Q!" The anger is boiling now, raging and crashing hard against the atmosphere like waves against an ocean's bank. "Don't compare us. You got knocked up by the biggest man slut in Ohio, and I—"

"You're losing your best friend," It slips out before Quinn can catch it, sounding soft and earnest amongst the remnants of Santana's reverberating anger.

"I—" Santana hesitates like she wants to deny it, like there are malicious words bubbling amid her anger, something about how she's not losing Brittany, she's just letting go of something she doesn't need, like an appendectomy, cutting it out before it spreads poison to her body, but it's a lie even Santana Lopez can't bear to tell and that makes Quinn's composure fray a little.

"You have other friends, Santana," Quinn says, even though her words are fraying just as much as her composure is, because honestly, she knew the situation was bad but she is just now realizing how much this really is affecting Santana whether the brunette wants to acknowledge it or not. "You have people who you can talk to,"

"Like who?" Santana scoffs. "You?" she asks incredulously. "We're not friends, Quinn!" she barks. "So whatever this is you're trying to accomplish, just forget it,"

And usually that would be enough for Quinn; in any other circumstance, she'd leave readily and leave Santana alone to her pitiful, stubborn self-loathing but she can't; she just can't, not when she sees Santana so very close to breaking.

"No," she says simply. "No, I won't just quit and let you revert back to hiding within yourself and terrorizing everyone else because of it. It's not healthy, Santana. It's not good for you! It's not good for Brittany!" Quinn notes as Santana tenses at the mention of the name, but she forges forth anyway. "It's not good for anyone around you, so stop being so stubborn! Open your eyes and realize that there are people willing to be there for you if you reach out to them and stop being such a bitch about everything,"

'You know what?" Santana's face is hard, distant, completely void of any emotion. "Bravo, Quinn! Bravo! Did you practice that little speech? Because that was the best display of self-righteousness I've ever seen!"Her fingers clench so hard that Quinn can see the color drain from them even from where she's standing. "In case you haven't noticed; your halo, Quinn? Smashed a long ass time ago; even before you got knocked up with your boyfriend's best friend's demon spawn," Her voice is escalating now, her words leaving her like sharp daggers thrown to fatally wound. "So don't you dare come in up in my house with your judgment when you can't even name one person in your whole fucking life who doesn't have one of your knives in their back!"That stings, probably more than Quinn would like to admit but if the brunette's tensed shoulders and clenched jaw are any indication, she's not done yet; she's aiming to do more than just sting. "Like Finn, hmm? What about Finn? Going in to twist the one you already stuck in there, huh, Quinn? And Sam?"

"You don't even like Sam," Quinn reminds her. There's anger coloring her own words now but they still sound feeble next to Santana's resonating rage.

"And how about Berry?" Santana continues, completely ignoring Quinn's interruption. "Fuck, I'll take every shot at Berry that the opportunity arises, but you, Quinn? What you do is sick! What are you gonna do? Toss Finn back to her once you have your shiny little prom crown? God, you're so damaged, and you think you have right to stand here and tell me what I do isn't healthy!"

"_I'm _damaged, Santana?_ I_ use people?" Quinn knows she should probably count to ten and chalk Santana's entire outburst up to Santana's penchant for lashing out whenever she feels anything that isn't anger, but Quinn's blood is boiling hot now and she can't stop the words from tumbling from her lips. "All you do is use people! Puck, Finn, Sam, _Brittany_!" she should stop; Quinn knows she should stop, but the words refuse to be anything but heard and they ooze into the tension between them, cutting through it until it's bleeding."The only difference between the guys and Brittany were that they were using you just as much as you were using them; you wanted to validate your self-worth so badly yet none of them thought you were worth anything except Brittany. Isn't that funny, Santana? How it's been Brittany all along, but you waited until she was happy with someone else to figure that out, and you know what? I'm glad that she won't risk that for you! To think that I came here to tell you that I was on her side but now I've realized that you were never good enough for her anyway!"

Quinn doesn't detect the early motions of a launch until it's too late, until her back hits the wall so hard that the desk pressed against it rattles in its place. Santana's forearm is at her throat, pressing down so hard that Quinn's head spins from the severely decreased amount of oxygen. Quinn has fought with Santana before, more than once, more than twice even, but there's something different about this, something she can't place.

She wants to fight back, she wants to dig her nails into Santana's arm until she is forced by pain to release her, but Quinn finds herself _not stuck_, but _lost_, lost in the intense sea of emotion swimming around in dark brown irises. She should apologize, she honestly didn't really even mean half of what she said, but she finds herself unable to formulate words, unable to do much of anything except heave for breath and stare into the clearly hurt eyes of someone who used to be her friend.

She reaches out, tries to get hold of the brunette, tries to comfort her, but Santana grasps her hands and shoves them hard against the wall.

"Don't!" she breathes, the exhalation warm against Quinn's face. "Just don't!"

There's something else amongst the hurt and anger in Santana's eyes; something odd flowing between them—not air, not with the way Santana's pressing against her to keep here there—but something that Quinn can't even begin to—_oh_.

_OH_!

It's _nothing_.

There's _nothing_ between them, nothing except a layer of spring clothing and a slowly dissipating fury. Fighting with Santana has never been like this before; it's usually all name-calling and hair-pulling, superficial anger and cheap shots but now it's not even moving; now it's heavy breathing and staring not at each other but into each other; it's not being able to concentrate because Santana's breath is blowing warm against Quinn's skin. And then it's kissing, hard and breathless, straining into and against one another like a shore reacting to the brutal collapse of the waves.

Santana bites hard into Quinn's bottom lip, granting herself access to Quinn's mouth before Quinn can offer it. This is more indicative of their usual hostile habits; it's not fighting but there's still that push-and-pull, that give-and-take, only now when Quinn pushes back, when she strains against the hands pushing against her wrists, Santana moans, filling Quinn with this rapidly burning fire that makes her feel light as air and far too heavy to stand all at once. Santana seems to notice because she pulls back from Quinn's lips, regarding her carefully under the full splay of dark lashes. She releases her grip on Quinn's wrists but doesn't remove her body, doesn't allow anything but the feel and smell of her penetrate Quinn's senses.

Santana's hands are quick and harsh, dragging the cotton of Quinn's blouse against her skin until it not entirely unpleasantly scratches.

She groans when Santana's palms slide under her skirt and gasps when fingernails bite harshly into the skin of unmarred thighs until Santana is hoisting her up, pinning her more completely between the wall and her warm body.

Quinn knows she should stop this; she knows this is just Santana giving into the whims of her body because she doesn't want to talk about the whims of her heart but she can't quite keep her body from reacting to Santana's ministrations. It's pure instinct when she wraps her legs around the brunette's waist, fitting their bodies so wholly that every time Santana breathes Quinn feels it in her own chest, and it's completely intrinsic when she coils her fingers in Santana's shirt, grounding herself as Santana roughly nips at the quickly reddening flesh of her neck.

There's a deep clenching in the pits of Quinn's stomach accumulating in an even deeper wetness between her thighs. She rocks her hips forward, draws some relief when she's met with the resistance of a solid body but Santana splays a hand on Quinn's hip, pressing so hard that Quinn's sure there will be a handprint that size of Santana there tomorrow. It's a clear message; _Quinn doesn't get a say in what happens here_.

Santana's other hand stalks upwards and under the flimsy cotton of Quinn's blouse until she's grasping skin, raising goose bumps and welts from sharp nails.

Santana's not actually trying to hurt her, Quinn knows this, but it isn't until Santana actually slips inside her with two fingers, hard and deep and without warning, that Quinn starts to really understand her intentions.

She's not trying to use Quinn's body as a substitute for Brittany's, or even trying to get back at Quinn for things she probably shouldn't have said—and even more things she probably shouldn't have done—but she's unburdening herself, she letting go and into Quinn; she's thrusting away at the demoralizing barrier between them; she's creating a beginning at the very ends of her fingertips.

Quinn shudders beneath Santana's weight, her lips parted in a voiceless moan. Santana's palm presses roughly against Quinn's clit with every thrust of her fingers and it's enough to make Quinn's face flush and her muscles tremble but she holds on to the wave threatening to spill through her, bites her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood just to be able to suppress it because she knows, she _feels_ that Santana needs this more than she does; Santana needs her to hold on, so Quinn does. She clenches her fingers tightly in Santana's shirt and when that's not enough, she presses her fingertips into skin, and then her nails, riding alongside the energy crashing through her veins until Santana lets out a quiet sob into the crook of Quinn's neck and thrusts so hard that Quinn can't stop the waves from crashing over her. She shudders hard against Santana's body and even harder against the intrusion of her fingers until she finally collapses on her own feet but still supported by the now gentler weight pressed against her.

Quinn's heart is racing and her chest still heaving on every inhale and Santana pulls out of her but doesn't move; she doesn't raise her head from where it's pressed into the side of Quinn's neck.

It takes Quinn a moment to realize that the soft sobbing, the warm liquid collecting on her skin; those are tears, Santana's tears. She's crying and clinging onto Quinn like Quinn is the only thing able to keep the tears from just washing her away.

Quinn is not sure how she's keeping her own heart from breaking. She's seen Santana cry before, but this, this is entirely different; this is the crying reserved only for Brittany, except Quinn can only imagine that this is worse because this is the crying _caused by Brittany_.

She wants to say something, to do something, anything to soothe away the tears, but no words come to mind except _what would Brittany do_ but she knows anything Brittany would do would probably only make the tears escalate at this point so she runs her palm up Santana's spine and surprisingly enough, words seem to come naturally.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs into Santana's hair, rubbing circles between the brunette's shoulder blades. Santana doesn't budge, and she certainly doesn't stop crying. "I didn't mean it," Quinn continues anyway, her voice as soft as Santana's sobs. "When I said you weren't good enough for her," she clarifies. "Honestly, I think you're the only one good enough for her, Santana," The truth pours off of her in waves and she feels a tear slide down her own cheek but she ignores it, instead she concentrates on maintaining a rhythm as she sweeps her hand up Santana's spine again. It's really sad that for how long she's known Santana that this is the first time Santana's actually used her as a shoulder to cry on and funnily enough, Santana's right, they're not even friends; not anymore, but Quinn is starting to wonder if they ever really were and if they were, how comes she doesn't even know where to start to try to calm the brunette down? It's sad and it's stupid because none of it should be happening; Santana shouldn't be pining over Brittany because she should have Brittany, like she's always had Brittany and Quinn shouldn't be here wondering if she and Santana were ever friends because she knows how much Santana loves Brittany, she was the _first one_ to know how much Santana loves Brittany, the first one Santana let in deep enough to feel the beating of a heart that is currently hammering into Quinn, reminding her that the Santana who once let her in does still exist and she's waiting for Quinn to dive like she readily did before everything go so screwed up. Somewhere along the lines, things changed, wires that shouldn't have been touched crossed, and Quinn is suddenly ready to untangle them. "What happened to us, San?" she asks quietly, breathing in the scent of Santana's shampoo and the suffocating particles of this particularly charged atmosphere. "What happened to us?" she repeats when Santana doesn't answer.

"You started hating me," The reply is gentle, almost whispered and it takes a moment for it to sink in with Quinn, for it to resonate and send a jolt right to Quinn's chest because Santana said—Santana just—Santana thinks—

"No," Quinn's reply is breathless, like the wind has been knocked out of her and maybe it has, maybe there wasn't enough there to begin with. "I never—I don't hate you! I—" The truth is there's been a strain between them for a long time, even before Glee and her pregnancy and their constant battle for captaincy; there was a strain and it turned into a tear and suddenly it all makes sense."I was disappointed in you," she admits, feeling as Santana's breath blows over residue of fallen tears. "I was disappointed in you because you were the strong one, San. You were _supposed to be_ the strong one of us three but you let it get to you. You let the expectations pile on top of you; you let guys pile on top of you and you just weren't _you_ anymore; you were whatever they wanted you to be but you are better than that, Santana," Tears are freely falling down Quinn's cheeks now and she doesn't know how to stop them anymore than she knows how to stop Santana's; she doesn't know if she has the will to stop them. "I didn't know how to tell you that then. We were never good at talking, especially to each other, but I figured if you weren't gonna be strong, then I didn't need you, but I did; _I did need you_. I needed you to be strong for me, but I didn't realize that you needed me to be just as strong for you, because I would have, Santana," she's cradling the brunette's face now, taking her in with bleary vision, swiping at tears that won't stop falling. "I would have been strong for you. You and Brittany—you could have—I would have stood by your side every step of the way,"

"Quinn," Santana's voice is choked, but she's looking at Quinn differently, like she hasn't seen her before, or more appropriately, she hasn't seen her in around two years. "You _are_ strong. That's why I've always been so jealous of you. You just bounce through everything unscathed,"

"Unscathed?" Quinn allows herself a watery smile. "I went from captain of the Cheerios, to pregnant, to captain of the Cheerios to not even on the Cheerios; I hardly consider that unscathed," she admits. "But I am stronger and so are you," she smiles. "I think we're finally strong enough to be strong for each other,"

Santana doesn't look wholly convinced but she does allow herself a smile, a small one, but that's the brightest Quinn has seen her in days.

"Strong enough to push a wheelchair off the side of a cliff, you think?" Santana asks with just enough mischievous straining through her weary voice to make Quinn smile.

"I was thinking more along the lines of strong enough to push the first jock who asks you and Britt for a threesome into oncoming traffic," she says with a smile.

"You mean Puck then?" Santana jokes.

Quinn scoffs.

"If that's the case, I'll help you push," she jokes, letting the suddenly serenity of a room she doesn't know well enough and a person she's starting to know all over again wash over her. It's different than it was before, even different than before _before_, back when they were friends, but suddenly Quinn's pretty excited for school tomorrow. There was a time when Quinn Fabray was all bark and no bite, and there was a time when Quinn Fabray was all bark and Santana Lopez was bark even louder, but now it feels like Quinn Fabray is all bark and Santana Lopez is bark even louder _and then bite_, and it feels right. It feels like how it should have been all along.

Fin.


End file.
